INTERLUDE 4A: SOUL FREED
“Thanks in large part to recent developments in agricultural applications of certain soil-enrichment spells, we can say with confidence that within five years the farmlands of Agormand alone will supply more excess sustenance than the city of Mund can consume. I know. We cannot say how this has been permitted to come to pass and at this time, at least, overt dissolution of the relevant schemes will alert the Unwilted Bloom and other druidic societies engaged in these studies to our vested interests. Lest we risk a popular uprising, I propose that their experimentations be permitted to continue, and that we utilise the levers of taxation and logistics to resolve our financial woes. I call for a vote to set Magistrati assets on the problem immediately.”
– from the official memorandum of the Shadow Council, Enyara 663 NE
“Gorlot!”
He groaned and, eyes still shut, squeezed at the pillow beneath his head. He wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep but he wanted to preserve the luxurious half-awake state for as long as possible.
“Gorlot! Breakfast!”
Far more than the sound of his landlady’s voice, it was the scent of not-quite burnt bacon that encouraged him to rise. He found a seated position, keeping the sheets up over his torso, and opened his bleary eyes.
“Have a late one last night, did we?” she crooned.
He didn’t meet her gaze, only glancing around to check the shields’ rotations.
Every ward secure, he noted.
“Got you three rashers; three sausages; three toasty slices almost black. Just the way you like it. Big knob on the side.”
He finally looked over. No matter how he tried to preserve his modesty, no matter how he insisted on privacy, she would always let herself in unannounced, using the morning meal as an excuse to rake his undressed form with her shining bird-bright eyes. Naked hunger glistened in those eyes, all-too-visible despite the creased flesh in which they swam.
Not the kind of hunger breakfast would satisfy. Almost unconsciously he pulled the sheets a little higher, covering his chest.
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Wallstock.”
She hummed or purred, a subvocal response that had little to do with replying to him. The white-haired woman stepped fully into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind her, and placed the plate on the covers at the foot of his bed.
The folds of her hardly-hidden flesh moved, and he repressed his shudder.
He eyed the food instead, the lump of butter already half-melted, warmed by the toasted bread lying beside it – and his stomach roared loudly, betraying his reticence to move.
“Have at it, young man. Don’t mind me.”
Red-faced, he shuffled forwards a bit then folded himself in half, reaching out to grab the platter and slide it towards him.
“A-h-h,” Mrs. Wallstock murmured, leaning back against the door and smoothing down her girlish dress.
He tried to ignore her, buttering the toast and folding it into sandwiches in silence. All the while Gorlot was praying that someday he would figure out how to make his sorcerous shields ward off unwanted affections and lecherous eyes every bit as easily as they could the weapons of the Defiers.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked sweetly, looking to her left to preen herself in his mirror at the same time.
“Uh…”
“Some of that tomato juice?”
“Uh…”
“I’ve got it fresh…” she wheedled.
“I… I suppose.”
Her face lit up, and she deftly opened the door and darted through.
It was always the same. It was almost a rite by now. Of course he was thirsty. Of course he’d succumb to the offer. Why she didn’t just bring the drink with the food was beyond him. Doubtless the followers of Enye or some other god who valued promiscuity and pleasure would congratulate Mrs. Wallstock for her ritualised depravities, but Gorlot wasn’t one of those. He didn’t find any redeeming features in such philosophies. Yet it seemed more and more in these modern times he was expected to be along for the wagon-ride when even his fellow champions stooped to crass jokes and innuendo. More than once he’d been teased about his living situation by a hero of Mund. Harpsong had pulled it right out of his head, and it hadn’t been long before she told the others. People who were supposed to be his friends. People who were supposed to be the most-upright of the upright, servants of the light. Warriors defending the Realm against the demonic forces, behaving just like the imps they were sworn to fight.
It was tolerable. He’d get through it. At the rate he was saving up, he’d have enough for a swanky house in North Treetown in a few more weeks and he’d be able to leave this hell-hole far behind, nothing more than a distant memory. For now, Mrs. Wallstock’s was cheap. It was convenient. And, to be fair, her cooking was amazing.
I’ll hire her as a cook, he told himself, at ten times her last salary, and then she’ll have to behave herself. Play by my rules. Wait after knocking until I answer.
The door opened once more – no knock – and the crone came in bearing his cup, brimming with the good red stuff.
She held it out to him, and when his fingertips touched the wooden mug she pulled back, forcing him to let the sheet fall slightly in order to take it from her, exposing his torso.
“Ah-h-h-h,” she murmured again, smiling joyously. “So, what plans for the day, young man? It’s late for work, isn’t it?”
She already knew Starday was his ‘day off’. The one day he didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and pretend to head off to Hilltown.
“Tell you what,” she went on in a musing voice, as though none of this was planned in advance, “I have some jobs need doing around here. That shelf in the kitchen’s being a bugger again. You couldn’t take a look at it for me, could you?”
So you can stick your wizened hands all over my behind again?
Just the recollection of her twig-fingers on his posterior, ‘supporting him’, made his skin crawl.
“Sorry. Day off, remember? I’m meeting friends at noon.”
“Noon is an hour off, Gorlot. Are you sure you don’t have time?”
“Only an hour! What?”
He almost leapt up, turning his head to the dim yellow light pouring through the cracks in the curtains – he remembered in the last instant just how little there was protecting his dignity, and twisted back into his place before the sheet fell.
“Oh, but you’ve gotten crumbs everywhere! Let me –“
“No!” he yelped, hurriedly brushing them onto the floor so she wouldn’t approach any closer.
“Now they’re all over the boards,” she said, a trifle testily, clearly upset at having her opportunity to stick her hands in his lap taken away from her.
“I’ll pick them up.”
She stood back, and put her hands on her hips, staring at him.
“Later,” he growled. “Can I have some privacy, please, Mrs. Wallstock? I’d like to get dressed.”
“Alright, alright! I know where I’m not wanted!” Her thin, gloating smile belied her protests. “And to think, I made you your favourite breakfast… What’s gotten into the young of today? Such rudeness! I’ll never fathom it…”
With painstaking slowness, suddenly affecting an infirmity in her wrists and hips that’d been nowhere to be found when she was plying him with her wares, she turned the handle and left the room.
Leaving the door ajar behind her.
Restraining the urge to snap at her – that would only bring her back, which was no doubt her intention – he gestured silently instead, summoning Etaxeraxa.
“Shut that,” he commanded quietly in Infernal, and the imp obeyed without making so much as a sound, pressing all four of her palms against the door’s surface and flapping her tiny sets of wings. For her size, she was very strong. She was more than capable of the task.
He didn’t have any issues getting dressed in front of his minions. That was another thing altogether. He visited the chamberpot, quickly scrubbed his armpits and groin with a too-wet sponge from the wash-bowl, then pulled on his civilian clothing: black trousers, grey tunic, brown belt and boots.
When he was dropping his plate and cup off downstairs, Mrs. Wallstock tried to engage him once more on the topic of crumb-covered floorboards. He’d already had the mess cleaned up by Venvaino and Kimmelkramserat, and, knowing full-well she’d inspect it while he was out anyway, bade her go check his handiwork as soon as she was free.
He didn’t care to mind the scorn in his voice, preoccupied with the lateness of the hour at which she’d awoken him, and she didn’t press the matter, letting him leave through the front door without so much as a further word.
It was a cool spring day, but the skies were clear and it looked as though it would turn out fine. Dumping the contents of the chamberpot in the gutter and leaving it in the porch, the young arch-sorcerer headed out into the streets. He avoided Beggar’s Row like the plague and skirted the refuse pile the wagoners always dumped in the middle of Daybrent Road, keeping at a bare minimum of an arm’s-length from the kids that scavenged the mound of debris for remnants of coal. Wouldn’t do for one of them to try to steal from him, and get pushed off by his wards.
Not while he was still Gorlot Kade.
It was strange, knowing that if he wore his uniform he’d have crowds forming about him. He was probably the third-strongest arch-sorcerer of the city’s champions, by now. Wenderwarp and Sunshadow were legends. But he’d overtaken Miseryknot. He’d outstripped Widowmourn. His name was on the people’s lips. He couldn’t go an hour in public without hearing someone mention him, in glowing tones of admiration and awe.
It was deliciously bittersweet. He supposed with so few people to protect, no family or friends to speak of – he might one day consider coming out with his identity. Live the high life, properly. Like only the rich could.
He turned into the second alley on the right, waited until he was away from prying eyes, and had his imps bring him his champion’s robe.
Letting the purple-blue fabrics flow down about his body, he drew a deep, satisfied breath, then settled the band of his mask about his ears and pulled up his hood.
I’m back, he said to himself. Azurelight, back in action.
Now let’s see what all the fuss is about.
* * *
The air was clear and cool. The city was busy and bustling. Criers cried the same non-news as last week. Trumpeters trumpeted the victory marches that’d become so popular. The Oldtown streets teemed with people shopping and seeking entertainment, and when he stopped looking, gazing ahead instead, their colourful clothing became a scintillating blur in the corner of his vision. It was almost as though the roadways were canals, surfaces iridescent with dappled sunlight. Laughing voices rising like a brook’s babbling, hateless and pure. The mood of Mund and the Mundians had never been better and it was reflected in the very atmosphere through which he coursed.
Late last Wanesday the reports had first come in from Karamat. The Chosen Lords Sentelemeth and Rhaegel of the Sunset had won a great battle against the dissidents, ending in the death by honourable duel of Lord Alaphar; at his defeat the rebel’s supporters had capitulated, signing terms, and after almost four months of pervasive dismay the purported ‘Mage War’ was finally over. Already Amranians were opening their stores again, and the gaols were emptied of their spies and informants. Everything was getting back to normal in the capital at last.
The nature of the advice Firstlore had given Lord Sentelemeth was something Azurelight couldn’t even begin to guess at, but assuredly it had led to Sunset winning the war. And now, suddenly, Firstlore’s pet portal project was given the go-ahead…
So surprising. The only funny bit was that Firstlore couldn’t go himself.
The Golden Wood was located in North Treetown. It was easily picked out from the air, with its majestic soaring branches, the scintillating haze of emerald light spilling up out of the ring like a jewel set in a burnished amulet.
There were quite a few people in attendance. He spotted the others like him, on a mound of tangled heather and mossy stones within the band of gold trees, and he sank down to hover beside them.
“Hail,” he cried as he descended.
“Master of Demons and Lord of the Dead.” Harpsong addressed him with a perfectly amiable grin on her face. “Protector of the Ekenrock, Defender of Tangledtree. Slayer of Bodycount. You’ve faced down two Invasions now, right? I’ve seen you defeat thastubabil just with your eyes. And yet – Mrs. Oroba Wallstock…?”
The enchantress-champion paused for effect, glancing around at the others to garner their support for her continued mockery.
“I’m not late, Harp,” he replied. “Eight minutes early, in fact, according to my internal chronometer.”
“Oh no,” she went on regardless. “Can’t face a lonely old hag, can you? What is she? A banshee-lord? You need back-up when we get back?”
Azurelight ignored the kid now, doing his best to look straight at their leader, Hoarbrow.
Unlike the others, the esteemed dwarven wizard didn’t so much as crack a smile. In fact she was frowning, eyes glinting coldly beneath the bushy white eyebrows.
“That’ll do,” the dwarf said curtly. “The lot of you. Have you forgotten why we’re here?”
Moontick and Spleensap straightened up, the druid offering a quick “Sorry!” under his breath – but the second-greatest diviner in Mund answered in her typical irreverent fashion.
“Preliminary patrol work,” Moon said dismissively, her thin elven lip curled in derision. “If it was important, they’d send Firstlore, wouldn’t they?”
“Firstlore’s busy. Just because he isn’t here, doesn’t mean this isn’t important.” Hoarbrow rolled her broad shoulders, glaring to establish dominance. “I would’ve thought you’d show a modicum of respect, young lady.”
Moontick shrugged. She was too confident in her power to show anyone or anything the respect they deserved. She even argued with Firstlore in front of the Gathering when the mood took her.
“So we’re the first in how long?” Spleensap asked, a trace of nervous trepidation still lurking beneath the druid’s voice.
“At least two hundred years,” Moontick responded at once. “The records are unclear. If the Magickers hadn’t damn-well sunk Asil’qarith –“
“Speculation!” Hoarbrow hissed. “Enough of those depraved delusions –“
“– it’d probably be another two hundred before anyone would’ve bothered,” the seeress finished.
“Come on, Spleen,” Azurelight said, eyeing his friend across the circle. “By the time we got to pint number six you were telling me you’d go through on your own, fates be damned. What’s changed?”
“I sobered up.” The arch-druid smiled wanly. “What about you? You were still scared stiff, last I saw you.”
“I’m not certain.” Azurelight gazed up at the immense portal of green fire towering over them, then looked back to his friend, offering a smile. “Maybe I’m still drunk. You were well unconscious by that point, as I recall.”
“You require an infusion? I’m guessing you got a good night’s sleep –“
“No. No, thanks, Spleen. Rather keep my courage.” The sorcerer grimaced then looked back to Hoarbrow. “I’m here now. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
They started moving together under the power of Hoarbrow’s spells. What had been a background buzz quickly became a dull roar as they came into closer and closer proximity to Autumn’s Door, and Azurelight knew now that he was the only one to hear it. It was just like the trip to Grabera’s Common. All he had then was conjecture. Now? A second instance seemed to prove the hypothesis.
It’s the sorcery, he thought, gritting his teeth. Some distant blood connection, between myself and Litenwelt.
He just had to keep his head up and get through it. It’d be fine on the other side.
Wouldn’t be long.
The Magickers and Magistrati glared at one another, assembled on opposite sides of the Door. The Lords of Sunset had sent their agreed representatives, a trio of stately knights standing beside the Band of Gold assistants, each nodding to Hoarfrost in greeting as the five archmages came coursing up.
“We shan’t stand on ceremony. Everything is prepared?”
The dwarf received a series of sharp nods and curt replies.
“Well, then.” She glanced back at Harpsong, to Spleensap, Moontick – then to him. Obviously finding whatever it was she’d been looking for, she cracked a rare smile. “Let’s get this over with, indeed.”
* * *
They entered the flaring curtain of light with their usual confidence. They were archmages, at the peak of their power. They could handle anything.
Floating through with all the haste he thought he could display without looking hasty, Azurelight almost overtook Hoarfrost, and when the fire rippled over him and he emerged into the world beyond he realised almost instantly that this had all been a terrible mistake.
The first thing that startled him was the darkness. This wasn’t just midnight on a new moon night black. This was million miles under the sea black. Blinded in a coffin black. The fierce illumination of Autumn’s Door barely touched the dark tiles upon which it was based. There was no ceiling to be discerned even with vampiric sight to aid him; he found himself turning as he fled the portal’s song, looking back at it to keep some landmark in mind, judging his speed and distance by perspective.
He had to get away from it. It was making him sick. Yet it was his only salvation. His home lay behind it – he would have to pass through it again, and, in spite of everything, the sooner their return came the better.
Wherever they were, whatever this shadowed chamber was purposed to be – it was truly enormous. The Door clearly didn’t scrape the roofs, and here he was, already sixty, eighty feet away from it, soaring in the blankness and shaping his shields – he could only assume the place was every bit as expansive if one were to come through the Door in the opposite direction –
Thud.
The half-nethernal breath was knocked out of him as he struck a pillar.
He’d hurtled backwards into the cold stone, and, jolted unexpectedly out of his planned trajectory, the arch-sorcerer fell away spinning. He caught himself and groaned, rubbing the side of his head where he’d connected with the chilled surface. Certainly the ghost-formed essences he wore helped minimise the pain, the severity of the injury he’d sustained – but the substance itself had proved impenetrable to them.
It’d been a long time since the ghost-form had let him down in this way.
He glanced around again, hoping the others hadn’t noticed – but what were the chances of that?
“Slick as starlight,” Moontick tittered.
“Yeah, we all saw that,” Harpsong thought at him. “Well – we’ve all seen it now.”
Even Spleen gave a short, involuntary laugh.
“How much to get you to erase it from everyone’s memories?” Azurelight moaned.
“More than you’re worth! Aha!” The enchantress cackled. “Found something interesting, have you there, sorcerer?”
“This metal needs investigating,” he thought back, sullen, still rubbing his head.
“Not metal,” Hoarbrow said. “Rock, of some kind, or… glass.”
Harpsong and Hoarfrost slowly started to light the chamber, the enchantress building luminous yellow lines across the floor, working them upwards – the wizard started near the roof, smearing frosty-white radiance right across the glistening, honey-coloured surface that seemed to stretch out over their heads…
“The chronal field in here… it’s intense.” Moontick’s voice was subdued, a hushed mind-whisper that set shivers crawling up the sorcerer’s spine. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We need to get some accurists to come through with us next time. No idea what a clock would do in here.”
While she spoke the illuminations spread, spread –
Azurelight turned, looking back at the great grey-black column with horror crystallising in his brain, jaw going slack.
Not a pillar. Pillars. Evenly-spaced throughout the chamber.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.
And as cords of burning sun-yellow incandescence reached up, up…
Not pillars.
Legs.
Legs of monolithic, crudely-shaped humanoids. Noseless, earless faces atop boulderous shoulders, more pillars dangling motionless like arms beside rotund torsos.
He floated upwards, looking down on this… host of colossi.
“Sixty-six feet tall,” Moon noted. “Each weighs nine-hundred and eleven tons… Perfect uniformity. I – I can’t see a single difference between them. Not a blemish. Not even a blemish!”
The seeress was starting to sound scared.
“Eldritches?” Hoarbrow asked in disbelief.
“Not one bit,” Azurelight replied, studying the nearest statue again. “Golems? Elementals?”
“If they were, they’re inert now,” the wizard said. “No magic in them whatsoever. Azurelight, what about the immaterial planes?”
He hadn’t even thought to check.
Two attempts to force a breach gave him the answer he decidedly wasn’t looking for.
“There’s nothing to get hold of!” he reported, trying to keep the sudden aching sense of foreboding from his voice.
Hoarbrow grunted. “Moon, would you be so kind as to report back to the supervisory teams? Who knows? Maybe we can get you your accurist… and an archaeologist.”
The arch-diviner had only just turned on the air when five more shapes burst through the wall of green fire.
Sunshadow, Azurelight growled internally, seeing his rival in her black-and-white striped robes, her sun-and-moon mask. What’s she doing here? This was to be my day! The highborn witch was shimmering on the air as she stuttered forwards, gungrelafor-essence radiating almost visibly from her, bat-wings snapping with every motion.
“Hoarbrow!” Firstlore almost gasped the word, plunging towards them, the old seer taking in his surroundings with a quick jerk of his hairless head. “Report!”
So this was his plan all along. To upstage us!
“You’re supposed to be lunching those fops from Zadhal, aren’t you?” their dwarven leader cried back. “Links!” she added, glancing from Harpsong to Merrytwinkle.
“Yeah, even though this was all his big idea,” Moon sent psychically.
Whatever anyone thought – the arch-sorcerer’s fears all slipped away quietly. Now reinforcements were here, any danger posed by this environment was overshadowed by the need to exalt himself above his rival.
Azurelight was close enough to see the expression change on the old man’s face – from scorn and disappointment to understanding.
Aghast, awful understanding.
The mightiest living arch-diviner screeched to a halt and, gesturing, turned on the air, glancing and scowling about in renewed concern and curiosity.
“Chronal amplification field,” he spat. “Inverted dampening effect. You’ve been in here three days already and to you it’s been no time at all, hasn’t it? Everybody out! Now! We’ll come back with a working prepared.”
Azurelight didn’t need telling twice. He was already moving before the command came.
Even still, he was one of the farthest from the Door.
He got to watch as the things got to work.
He got to see them, his vampire-eyes finally attuning to the cursed darkness.
See them, atop the Door’s frame, where they’d waited all along.
See them, as they wordlessly sprang down.
* * *
Searspear, the elven wizard, was the closest to the Door. Near the floor.
Doooooooom.
A gargantuan shape descended, and in the very next instant the leg stamped down on the wizard’s body. The elf didn’t even get a chance to react. Between one instant and the next, a weight of ancient power crashed right through the space he occupied.
Only Firstlore’s power could’ve saved him.
Only Firstlore went to the wizard’s rescue, streaking down to save his friend –
Doooooooom.
Carrying him straight into the path of the next leg.
Doooooooom. Doooooooom. Doooooooom.
Azurelight slowed in his flight for a moment, staring at the spot where Firstlore and Searspear vanished, gone without a trace.
Except a smear of bloody paste, extruding about the base of the pillar-like leg, puddling outwards from the point of impact…
It was as though these things knew what to expect of the champions, understood how to outplay them at this, their own game. When a petrified Merrytwinkle dove at the upper-right corner of the Door, the closest of the creatures leapt with fearsome agility, swinging a featureless arm-end… a hand, a fist, a club of disgusting force.
It struck the gnome enchantress so hard she splashed.
Harpsong got her leg stuck under a pillar, instantly amputating the limb, and, in the split-second that Spleensap diverted to help her, another creature leapt into the fray.
Causing the druid to vanish too.
Doooooooom.
Doooooooom.
Doooooooom.
There are so many of them.
Hoarbrow and Sunshadow each seemed to seize upon the bright idea of moving around the Door to the reverse face – both women unleashed death-curdles on the link as the dooms rang out.
A leg shifted – the panting Harpsong, diving through the air trailing her life’s-blood, died in an instant, and with her went the last echoes of the psychic connections that remained.
Moontick alone managed to swerve around the melee, the dextrous elven seeress grabbing Twigtrail by the shoulder, tugging the green-clad girl along with her as she barrel-rolled at an exit aperture.
It didn’t matter how fast she seemed to him – she was slower than she was supposed to be. Even she – even Moontick was blocked –
Doooooooom.
No. Not blocked.
Just gone.
He’d seen Twigtrail throw herself nonchalantly through walls in pursuit of her prey. He’d seen an attacker’s dagger break on Spleensap’s ribs.
But neither of them were coming back from a thousand tons, were they?
There was no route forwards. The arch-sorcerer span aside from the flurry of stone clubs, turning his back on the Door and the dying light… the already dying mage-light… fleeing not towards his home but up, up and away, away into the darkness –
No seams were there to be seen. His fingers clutched desperately at empty air.
The wind of a leaping creature’s arm droned just past his ear, all unseen, making tatters of his best shields.
He almost screamed, and found new velocities in his urgent flight. He put out a clawed hand to wring at non-existent seams –
Maybe there’s a way out! Maybe it doesn’t go on forever! Maybe I can escape – if I’m lucky –
He was very lucky indeed, to have that be his final thought. He didn’t have to feel the terror as a tremendous stony foot descended upon him. He was spared that indignity.
No, in his panic Azurelight flew straight into an impossible-to-see wall, and it was all treated with the same anti-phasing spells as the things chasing him.
He smashed his head apart.
The doorway to unconsciousness mercifully opened before him, and he took it eagerly, plunging through into the unknown.
The last thing he felt was the grip of weight at his navel as his ascent abruptly halted, the relative stasis of recoil giving way to inexorable motion, the world tugging him down –
Setting his soul free.
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